


Please Be True

by ScarletR



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Follows Cannon until it pisses me off, Introspection, Ivar being a sad boi, Ivar said Fuck Kattegat, Ivar thinks the Gods ship it so he ships it too, Like the History channel, Like the tags? You'll like the fic even more!, M/M, Oleg is oddly caring, Oleg is paranoid because he's Oleg, Sexual Content but no Smut, Touch starved Ivar, Violence because it's Vikings, probably not historically accurate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:14:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21821062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarletR/pseuds/ScarletR
Summary: Deep down, Ivar knew the truth of the matter; he was terribly lonely, and as the cold sunk deeper and deeper into his pale, weathered flesh he felt that love would never warm him again.
Relationships: Ivar (Vikings)/Prince Oleg
Comments: 16
Kudos: 156





	Please Be True

Freydis tried to hide her hesitation when she touched Ivar. It was barely detectable, but he noticed each and every time. It was visible in the way her pinky twitched when she reached out, as if a part of her was itching to recoil. He could see it in the way she grazed her delicate hands over his chest with the tips of her fingers, as if he would strike at any moment. Her light touches, the sinuous press of her body had always been welcome, always pleasant, but he often ached to press her palms closer, to feel the heat of her skin as surely as he felt the warmth of the blankets surrounding them. 

Even in bed, when he was most relaxed and unguarded, Ivar wore his trousers. He never let Freydis see his bare legs and he was grateful that she never asked him to explain himself. However, he hadn’t expected her to avoid them so completely. At night, she took to sleeping with her legs tucked against her chest to avoid grazing his legs in her sleep. When they kissed, she would always point her legs away and never touch him below the waist. When she straddled him, she never put any weight on his thighs and, in fact, hovered over them until she was too tired to hold herself up and quickly rolled away. Ivar never told her to do those things, never asked her to, but he didn’t know how to address the issue. 

She was his wife. She shouldn’t have been afraid to ask about boundaries, to push him, if only slightly. And yet she had always been a second away from flinching, from apologizing, from moving away. Ivar never stopped feeling uncomfortable about that. Not when they sat next to one another on their thrones, not when she proclaimed she was pregnant, not when she gave birth, not when he killed ‘their’ son, not when she betrayed him, and not when he laid back as she clawed at her neck, fighting for breath before falling limp forever. Even after, when he was many weeks outside the walls of Kattegat, Ivar felt the discomfort, the shame, and the rejection like it was the first time. 

He was haunted by the memory of her last moments, of the way she clawed at her neck and reached feebly for his face, by the weight of her body pressed against his front, by the sound of her feet scraping the floor as she resisted. He could still hear her gasps, her croaks and whimpers as she attempted to breathe against the press of metal at her windpipe. She sobbed, but it had been muffled. 

Ivar wondered if she had ever loved him as he had loved her… or if she had ever loved him at all. 

A quiet, desolate part of him recognized that their child was not actually his. He was impotent, incapable of having children of his own. He had simply allowed her to pull the wool over his eyes and believe the fantasy she so lovingly offered.  
She must have slept with someone else, possibly someone Ivar knew and worked with. The thought made him both sick and furious, but it was no matter now. The child was dead, its small, broken bones placed only inches from her corpse. Hopefully, they would be burned together and from the smoke their spirits would rise…

As Ivar travelled along the silk road, he often caught himself in deep, somber contemplation. He would think of his Mother, of Floki, Ragnar, Freydis; feeling their memory wind around his head like a most torturous tune. Loss flooded him, along with shame and anger. At times, he would arrive at dark thoughts, ones that stole the very breath from his lungs. 

Upon realizing that only when he was killing Freydis had he been able to feel the press of her body against his so completely, Ivar drank until he could no longer remain conscious. All of his wanting, all of his silent desire spilled over his eyes and fell onto the cold dirt beneath his boots. 

Another night, Ivar could feel the memory of Sigurd press against his mind like an incessant animal, nudging at his thoughts, howling for attention. He grimaced at the memory of his axe lodged in his brother’s chest and Ivar had to fight the urge to claw at his own skin in an attempt to rip out the shreds of regret that still remained. He could still hear Sigurd’s taunts, could feel their sting. Ivar shuttered at the thought of what would’ve happened if he hadn’t shut him up with his axe… 

Ivar was already half a man. Admitting to him impotence would’ve made him even less than. 

In a few painfully sober moments, he could recognize a breath of relief; his mother had not lived to hear the news of Sigurd’s murder. Ivar flinched, thinking of how she would’ve comforted him, of how she would’ve held his face in her soft hands until he melted. She would have forgiven him and protected him with her very life if need be. She would’ve soothed him with her soft, caring voice and he would’ve eaten up her every word without a moments hesitation, knowing she would never reject him, never turn him away. 

He had been the one to leave her in pursuit of his own ego, to assure himself of his worth while she laid dead at home. He hadn’t been there to defend her, to shield her from Lagetha’s arrow. In his lowest moments, Ivar could feel the sting of tears against the corner of his vision. His eyes would grow heavy as his tears froze on the edge of his eyelashes, as if the Gods themselves were pushing him into a deep, endless slumber. 

Ivar would never forgive himself for leaving her, and he’d never forgive his brother’s for their apathy.

He missed Floki’s casual affection, the way he’d clap his hands over Ivar’s shoulders and how he’d ruffle his hair just to annoy him. He missed his Mother’s wide, loving smiles and how she’d reach over to grab his hand during dinner, squeezing his fingers between her own. He remembered how Ragnar slung him over his shoulders to ease his journey while they were in Wessex, only complaining once about his weight during the long trek. He let Ivar hang his arms over his chest, let him speak on and on about nothing in particular, listening with a small, humored smile. 

But that was all behind him now, buried under snow and dirt and blood. However, Ivar took to holding himself while he slept, took to holding his own hands, massaging his own shoulders, and running his fingers through his hair. If he thought of his Mother while doing it, if he thought of Freydis or Floki or Ragnar, he wouldn’t say. 

But deep down, Ivar knew the truth of the matter; he was terribly lonely, and as the cold sunk deeper and deeper into his pale, weathered flesh he felt that love would never warm him again. 

Ivar clenched his jaw as he was dragged across the throne room, his legs dangling uselessly beneath him. A slow, rising pain pulsed from his ankles up and intensified as the friction between his boots and floor failed to ease. Ivar held his breath, his arms threatening to seize as he was lowered to the ground. He hissed against the tile floor, landing in a small heap. A pool of blood laid only an inch from his face, still fresh. He gazed at his red, barely defined reflection for a moment, and held back a grimace. He was a far cry from the King he was only months ago, with dirty, sweaty skin and wild eyes. He blinked, willing himself to focus on something beyond his wretched state, beyond his own self-pity. 

The pool of blood blended almost seamlessly with the red and gold tile floor. The walls were draped in gold cloth that appeared much too soft and much too smooth to be linen. The ceiling rose to a point, letting in hazy, golden light. Above Ivar’s head was a platform made accessible by small staircases on both sides. It appeared to almost be a stage, but was much too small. 

A man stood above him, dressed in a thick, warm, and undoubtedly expensive material covered by a dark, square pattern. Around his neck hung a silver necklace, and on many of his fingers were large, gold rings. In the man’s right hand was an axe, its blade dripping blood onto the floor. Ivar quickly realized that he was looking at Prince Oleg, otherwise known as The Prophet. 

The Prince peered down at him curiously and said something in his native tongue. Ivar could only guess it was something unpleasant, though he had no way to be sure. However, the Prince quickly switched to Old Norse, his accent surprisingly subtle. 

“You cannot walk,” he observed out loud. “Are you wounded?” 

That startled a laugh out of Ivar. “No,” he said with a small, sardonic smile. “I’m a cripple. From birth.” 

Immediately, Ivar reached for his legs and moved them to his front where he could see them. He was aware of the Prince’s heavy stare and did not falter. Ivar had been stared at his entire life; he would certainly not flinch now. As he settled his legs more comfortably, the pool of blood began to soak into his trousers, but Ivar merely shrugged, unbothered. 

He looked at Prince Oleg with narrowed eyes, pleasantly surprised by the turn of conversation. “You speak my language.” 

The man raised his chin. “It was once the language of my people too. We are Rus Vikings.” He peered down at Ivar with an unguarded interest. “What do they call you?” 

Ivar knew better than to lie. “My name is Ivar.” He pulled the scarf from around his head and pressed it to his chest, bowing his head only slightly. His hair fell in front of his face and hid his eyes from view. “They call me Ivar the Boneless.” 

The Prince smiled, tilting his head. His eyes shone with something more akin to morbid fascination than mere excitement. “I’ve heard of you.” 

Ivar wasn’t sure what to make of that. He wanted to be flattered, in fact, he almost was, but his apprehension held him back. He had made many enemies in his life, there was no assurance that Oleg was not one of them. 

The Prince raised his hand, pointing his axe down at Ivar. He was still smiling, radiating a fondness that appeared more predatory than kind. “Ivar,” he said, testing out the name. “The Boneless.” 

It was a good name, a strong name. Certainly, it was better than Ivar the Cripple or Ivar the Legless. It hid his disability from common knowledge, but did nothing for him now. 

Slowly, Prince Oleg lowered his weapon and turned, stating, “Your fame has travelled along the Silk Road. Like honey, beeswax, furs, and slaves.” 

Ivar frowned. Was he another commodity? Something small and shiny to be traded and sold? Was his life’s purpose to be placed on a shelf or mantel, only to be spoken about when conversation began to lull? No. His reputation loomed over him like a shadow threatening to eat the world whole. 

The Prince sat down and wiped the blood off his fingers, his gaze remaining fixed on Ivar. His eyes traced the shape of his jaw, the curve of his eyebrows, before resting on the space between his angry, blue eyes. 

“But why do you travel along it now?” His voice soured. “Without announcing yourself? Life a thief.” 

Ivar could practically feel the silent accusation press against his throat. He noticed the tick in Prince Oleg’s jaw and decided that the truth would land much smoother than a lie ever could. 

“I lost my Kingdom to my brothers.” Ivar couldn’t help the swell of anger that rose up his throat. He held back a seethe and settled for a grimace. “I am nothing. And I have nothing to offer you, Prince Oleg. It was not my intention to trouble you with my presence.” 

The Prince was clearly not satisfied with his answer. He frowned, leaning forward. “And where were you going?” 

“Nowhere. I have no plans.” It wasn’t really a lie, deep down Ivar knew that. “I am simply fleeing the retribution of my brothers.” 

Prince Oleg hummed deep in his throat and Ivar could see his eyes shift as he considered his options. The man strolled across the platform, his boots clicking against the floor. 

“Well,” he said. “You’re here now.” 

Slowly, he stepped down the small staircase until he and Ivar were standing on the same ground. He didn’t look at Ivar, and in fact, almost seemed to be talking to himself. “Who knows if your presence will trouble me.” 

Ivar stared silently, feeling his anger rise once more. He imagined tearing at the man’s back, ripping at his shoulders and forcing him to turn. He wanted to see the man’s face, to know what he was thinking. 

“Let us see.” 

Then he was gone, walking away with heavy steps. Ivar could only clench his jaw as his arms were pulled upwards and used to drag him across the floor to places unknown. Only the pain kept him from screaming. 

Ivar had expected to be thrown into a cold cell with walls of stone and thick, metal bars. As he was dragged off, he imagined freezing to death under Prince Oleg’s palace, of leaving the world with a whimper and not the roar he always hoped for. 

Instead, he was shoved into a suite with large windows, furniture, candles, a working fireplace, a large bed, and a fresh pitcher of wine. On the bed were many thick furs, and resting beside it were his crutches. 

Ivar sighed in relief upon seeing them and quickly used them to inspect his room further. 

He explored his lodgings with confusion and suspicion. From his conversation with Prince Oleg, he expected to be interrogated, or at the very least imprisoned. The later had yet to be properly seen, but guessing by his current accommodations, Oleg was hoping to keep Ivar in his favor. 

Who was he to Prince Oleg to be treated so well? What did the man want? How much did he know? 

With a relieved sigh, Ivar crawled onto the bed and quickly covered his legs with one of the many thick furs. He hissed, reaching under the blanket to press his fingers into the flesh of his thighs and calves, feeling a terrible cold emanate from his aching limbs. Ivar let out a harsh breath and pulled back his hands, resting them against his stomach as he laid back. As he waited for his legs to warm he thought of his last loyal follower, wondered where he was and whether or not he was receiving the same treatment. He could only hope so. 

Apparently not. As his follower’s arms were tied and bound, Ivar sat under a tarp, sheltered from the falling snow like a dainty, helpless maiden. It was both insulting and extremely curious that Prince Oleg continued to vie for his favor while stringing up Ivar’s only companion.

Ivar crossed his arms over his chest, realizing that while he’d been spared the pain of interrogation, his travelling companion had not. The man had gashes over his face and body, and one of his eyes was clamped shut and leaking blood. He was dressed in a thin tunic and trousers, undoubtedly suffering from the cold. Both his arms were tied to trees, which were bent at sharp angles and shaking with tension, ready to snap at any moment. Ivar hadn’t witnessed this particular method of execution before and hoped to Odin that his loyal follower wouldn’t be used as a demonstration. 

Oleg stood only a few feet away, dressed in light brown skins with black and white furs across his chest. Bits of snow clung to his beard, melting after a few short seconds. Oleg smiled at Ivar fondly, as if the display before them was something sweet and not openly grotesque. There was a glee about him, one that was visible in the ease of his stride. 

“We have had some problems with your friend,” he explained. “He was not cooperative, not helpful.” 

Ivar frowned and forced his arms to uncross. “I don’t understand. What has he done wrong?” 

Oleg glanced back at Ivar’s follower, not the least bit concerned by the man’s pained groans. “Your friend has refused to tell us why you have really come here. To my Kingdom. In disguise.” 

Ivar watched as his follower let out a deep, guttural scream. His arms were being pulled harder and the man’s chest widened to its limit. Ivar took a deep breath to keep his rising desperation at bay. 

“I already told you, there was no reason.” He clenched his fists, his urgency giving way to anger. 

The Prince laughed. “There is always a reason! Always!” 

Ivar watched in silence as Oleg poked and prodded at the man’s wounds, finding obvious amusement in his pain. Quickly, Ivar realized that he wasn’t dealing with someone of a sound mind. This was not Bjorn, was not King Harold, not King Alfred. This was someone with an unbridled sense of savagery, who would do whatever he felt he could get away with. 

Ivar was dealing with someone very much like himself.

With the wave of his fingers, Oleg signaled to his soldiers before running to Ivar’s side. Ivar straightened in his seat, and forced himself to keep still and watch as his last connection to Kattegat was torn apart. He shuttered as the man’s last words rang through the air and settled somewhere beyond the tree line. 

“Hail God Ivar!” 

Immediately, the man’s arms were ripped from his body and flung through the air like rocks from a slingshot. Blood exploded from the man’s shoulders and fell to the ground like rain. Ivar was shielded by the spray and Oleg was crouched a mere foot away, spotless. 

Ivar swallowed hard, shame flooding him. Mutely, he stared at Prince Oleg’s retreating form, wondering what the exact purpose was of this stunt. 

As the sleigh was pulled father and farther away from his follower’s limp, gushing corpse, Ivar couldn’t help but be hyper-aware of the heat of Prince Oleg at his side. The man sat only inches away, with his hands placed snuggly in his lap. He appeared quite content with himself, a small, wishful smile on his face. 

Before taking off, Oleg had spread a large fur across both their laps and Ivar barely kept his surprise off his face. Oleg’s hand had almost grazed his waist and if he’d gotten any closer, Ivar was sure he would’ve reared back with his heart in his throat. 

Truly, Ivar didn’t understand why they rode together. Oleg had already proven himself to be quite the sadist, so why hadn’t Ivar simply been slung onto a horse and forced to endure the pain of the journey? What was to gain by accommodating him so diligently? 

Ivar stopped himself from looking back at the retreating carnage. “How will you bury him?”

“Your friend will be honored with a funeral pyre, of course.” He met Ivar’s gaze. “I told you, we are Rus Vikings.” 

“You burn your dead?” Ivar asked, surprised. 

Oleg shook his head. “No. But we used to.” 

Ivar opened his mouth to reply, but shut it, finding there was nothing he wanted to say. 

Prince Oleg ran his hand over the side of the sleigh, petting it affectionately. It came away wet with snow and he quickly shook his hand to shake it off. He smiled, his eyes crinkling pleasantly. “I could get used to this.” He waved his hands, signaling to the sleigh as a whole. “This is undoubtedly superior to horseback.” 

Ivar blinked, immediately deciphering the deeper meaning to Oleg’s words. 

The sleigh was not for Oleg, but for Ivar. Every attempt to placate him thus far had been intentional, and Oleg was not ashamed of that fact. Ivar was meant to be comfortable, to be warm, to have proper food and lodgings. Oleg was attempting to ease Ivar into a life by his side. 

Ivar’s heart sped in his chest as he realized that he would not be leaving anytime soon. As long as Prince Oleg deemed it necessary, Ivar would be forced to stay. But why? Why did Oleg want him in Kiev? He had no land, no power, no money. There was nothing for him to offer, nothing for him to give. 

Ivar let out a breath, feeling a deep exhaustion sink into his brittle bones. 

If Oleg was hoping for a ransom, he’d be sorely disappointed. 

Prince Oleg was incapable of trusting anyone’s word it seemed, and yet could trust a contraption to fly them through the air safely without injury. Surely, there was some flawed logic in that, but Ivar kept his mouth shut and simply stared at it in silent horror. 

A few feet away, Prince Oleg stood with his hands at his waist, an edge of excitement to his voice. “What do you think? Would you like to fly, Ivar the Boneless?” 

Many dozen soldiers shouted and ran about, attempting to keep the giant, floating balloon from flying away. Ivar himself was being held up by two separate men as he stared up at the floating mass, having never seen anything like it before. Quickly, Ivar realized that he was about to die. 

Ivar looked at the balloon and then at Oleg before staring at the balloon again. “I don’t understand.” 

Oleg chuckled. “There is nothing to understand. Once we get enough speed we will be free of the Earth.” He turned to look at Ivar. “Isn’t that the dream of all humans?” 

No. Definitely not. 

“I don’t know,” Ivar said instead. 

The Prince chuckled again. “Surely for you, who cannot walk, who can only crawl across this Earth, the thought of flying free as a bird above it must be exciting, huh?” 

Before Ivar had the chance to be offended, he was dropped onto the sled legs first. He hissed and clenched his jaw as pain shot up his spine. It lingered at the back of his neck as he looked around wildly, fear binding his stomach in knots. 

Oleg gazed at Ivar with narrow eyes, noticing the tense line of his jaw, how his muscles jumped under his skin, and the young man’s ragged breaths. 

“Are you in pain?” 

Ivar’s eyes widened at the sudden question. He knew better than to lie. “I prefer my crutches,” he explained, refusing to meet the man’s eyes. 

“I see,” Oleg said, his voice contemplative. 

Oleg’s expression remained sober for a split moment before a smile broke out onto his face. He looked ahead and screamed, “GO!” 

Ivar was relieved when they both began screaming, though his were more of the terrified variety. As the sled gained speed, snow flew past and onto their faces, sending cold wind through their hair. Ivar held onto the sled with an iron grip, his nails digging into the wood, creating small splinters. 

“Don’t be scared,” Oleg screamed. “You won’t die if I’m with you.” 

Ivar could feel the ground retreat beneath them, and fear flooded him. “NO, NO, NO!” 

Oleg noticed his tight grip on the sled. “Let go!” he urged. 

Ivar considered his options and decided that being carried hundreds of feet into the air was safer than being the object of Oleg’s wrath. With a guttural scream, Ivar forced his fingers to loosen and he screamed louder as he and Oleg were lifted from the steady ground and up into the air. 

Below them many dozen men cheered and hugged one another, yelling after them. Frantically, Ivar wondered if this was the first time they tested the flying contraption. He wanted to believe Oleg wasn’t crazy enough to pull such a reckless stunt, but he doubted Oleg possessed the same sense of mortality normal people did. 

After all, Ivar certainly didn’t. 

Oleg laughed joyously beside him, gasping with exertion. “I wanted to bring you up here,” he said. 

Ivar clutched at the ropes keeping him from falling hundreds of feet onto the ground. “Why?” he shouted back. 

“Because you’re a god.” Oleg was still laughing, though it was weaker than before. “It’s true, isn’t it? You are a direct descendent of Odin. You have been revealed as a God.” He laughed at his own words, and his voice quickly grew mocking. “The god’s travel across the sky! Don’t they?” 

That wasn’t completely true. Not all Gods travelled by the sky. 

Ivar preferred the ground and always would. With the ocean came an ever looming threat of being swallowed whole, and with the air came the ever present fear of falling. But the Earth was almost always steady and was often willing to accommodate. 

All his life, Ivar had been close to the ground. He’d had his head shoved into the dirt, fallen face first into the grass, been forced to grip at if for leverage, resorted to laying on it when his arms grew heavy and tired. Everyday he crawled along Earth’s humble surface, dug his fingers into it, silently thanking it for being there. 

Ivar had no use for the sky. 

However, from their vantage point, Kiev appeared almost perfect. Every inch of the ground was covered in clean, white snow, and its rooftops, so different from those is Kattegat, were colored with bright reds, greens, and golds. People crisscrossed around the city, walked into buildings and across roads like they were in some elaborate maze. Ivar wondered if what so easily filled his vision was all they had ever known. The thought lightened his heavy heart, easing some of the tension there. 

Ivar gazed at Oleg, wondering if the man knew what dangers came with mocking Odin. Mutely, he wondered if the Gods were watching at all… for a while now he feared that they had abandoned him, that they no longer cared for Ivar the Boneless. 

The thought terrified him more than their current distance from the ground ever could. 

Suddenly, Oleg’s rope snapped, and the Prince screamed. He gripped it tightly, barely saving himself from a deadly fall. 

Ivar watched with wide eyes and his breath left him in a ragged gasp. Hope blossomed in his chest, a feeling so foreign that it scared him. He smiled, joy and relief evident on his face like never before. It was not only the sting of cold air against his face that caused his eyes to water. 

The Gods were still with him, he realized. He was not alone. 

“You won’t die if you’re with me,” Ivar screamed, repeating the Prince’s earlier words, but this time he meant it. This time it was true. 

Oleg frowned, outraged. “You are not a God!” he screamed back, struggling to keep his hold. “If I cut your ropes, you would fall to the ground and die. Isn’t that true?” 

If the Gods were still with him, if Ivar was indeed still in their favor, Oleg would come to believe him eventually. He was still a son of Ragnar, son of Aslaug, descendent of Odin, and he always would be. 

Ivar remembered all this and more as they approached the ground with an increased speed. He remembered it even as his legs were dragged through the snow, sending a terrible pain up his spine. He remembered it even as he screamed, and as he laughed, realizing that all was not lost. He closed his eyes, allowed his face to fall into the snow blanketing the ground, and sent a silent prayer to Odin, to his Mother, to Ragnar, before turning onto his back and letting his breath escape him. 

Beside him, Oleg laughed, clutching a stitch in his side. He moved closer, startling Ivar into pushing him away with the silent shift of his arm. His heart leapt in his throat as he realized that Oleg was part of the Gods’ plan, that he too had a role to play. 

If he didn’t, they surely would have let him fall. 

The tomb was lit by candles, each one dripping clear, melted wax onto the floor. The crystalline puddles reminding Ivar of the ice so prevalent in Kiev, and for a moment he wondered if the effect was intentional. Flickering light shone from almost every corner of the room, making everything appear as if it were made of gold. However, the heat of the candles failed to warm the frigid air and wasn’t enough to melt the tension between them. 

Ivar followed behind Oleg, his crutch lagging him a few feet behind. He looked around in interest, finally asking, “What is this place?” 

Oleg held a candle in one hand and shielded its small flame with the other. He was tense, and the line of his shoulders was stiff. 

“A mausoleum of my dead wife.” 

It was by the grace of Odin that Ivar held back his flinch. 

Oleg set down his candle, his back turned. “The most sacred place in the palace. And the most sacred place in my heart.” 

Lying in the center of the room was a large, stone sarcophagus. Atop it was a statue of a women with her arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes were closed, as if she were sleeping and would wake at any moment. Her long hair flowed into obscurity, blending into the rest of the gray stone. The folds of her dress looked real, as if Ivar could press them down with the slight force of his hand. 

Ivar could only look at it for a moment before having to turn away, thinking of Freydis. 

He forced himself to speak, to break the silence that threatened to suffocate them both. “How did she die?” 

Oleg prowled around the sarcophagus like a dragon to its hoard. “I killed her.” 

Ivar could hear something low in his voice, could hear a bit of fury, a hint of relish, some semblance of satisfaction, and yet his eyes remained desolate. 

Oleg continued. “She was young and foolish. I discovered that she was sleeping with one of my aides.” He set a flower down on the sarcophagus, right over the statue’s still, lifeless hands. “I loved her,” he said, as if repeating it enough times would make it true. 

Ivar kept silent, memories shuttering behind his eyes. 

“She was enchanting,” Oleg breathed. Tears fell from his eyes in large drops, sliding down the curve of his cheeks before disappearing into his beard. “I thought of her all the time. Even on the battlefield.” 

Ivar watched as Oleg’s eyes lost their shine and darkened, his voice turning sour. “Yet all that time, in some sordid room here in the palace, she was secretly betraying me.” 

“I know your pain.” Ivar finally replied. He forced his jaw to relax, but a dark, burning anger was visible in his eyes . “But you know that, don’t you? My follower told you during interrogation.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

Oleg turned, gazing at him seriously. “The point is; we both know the fickleness of women. You understand.” 

He didn’t deny Ivar’s accusation. 

When Ivar failed to answer, Oleg continued. 

“I don’t bring many people down here. But you…” Oleg moved closer before retreating once more, as if thinking Ivar would strike from such a close proximity. “I think you and I are going to have a very special relationship. I truly think so.” 

Suddenly, Ivar understood. 

“I’ve known fickle men,” Ivar said simply, challengingly. 

Oleg froze. “Have you?” 

Ivar did not falter under the weight of the man’s heavy gaze. “His name was Heahmund. He was a Bishop, a man of God. He assured me that he was loyal, that he was someone I could trust.”

Ivar let out a hollow laugh. “Only days later, he betrayed me and slept with my worst enemy, a women I pledged to kill.” 

Oleg stared at him, his eyes narrowed. “Did you kill him?” 

“I didn’t have to,” Ivar said. “He died in battle.” 

Oleg remained silent and Ivar could see him thinking. It was visible in the way his eyes moved, in the silent shift of his feet. 

Ivar stepped forward, his voice slow and measured. “The difference between men and women, Prince Oleg, is that a women can betray her husband while a man can betray anyone.” 

Oleg set his jaw, frustration shining in his eyes. “I suppose we will have to trust each other, then.” 

Ivar gazed at the stone sarcophagus, could feel a deep chill radiate from its surface from where he was standing. “Yes,” he whispered. “I think we will.” 

As Ivar sat in the throne room, waiting for Prince Oleg to arrive, many servants moved around the room. One of them offered him a cup of wine and he accepted it with a small ‘thank you.’ He sipped at it gingerly, finding it tasted different than the wine he’d been accustomed to. It was richer, darker, and Ivar found he preferred it over the sour wine back in Kattegat. 

“I have decided to treat your arrival here as a sign, an omen.” 

At the sound of Prince Oleg’s voice, the many servants scattered and retreated down the hall. Ivar turned and watched as Oleg took slow, methodic steps into the room. 

“You see, for a long time, we Rus, guided by my Brother in Law, King Rurik, looked to the east for trade, conquest, and expansion.” Oleg planted himself beside Ivar’s seat, gripping the couch with both hands. 

“Yet, even before your,” he hesitated, “I admit, somewhat unexpected appearance, I had begun to question this way of thinking.” 

Ivar listened intently, feeling the puzzle pieces fall into place. 

Oleg moved to sit beside Ivar, not the least bit bothered by their close proximity. “Perhaps, after all, it’s time for us to look west again.” He expression turned thoughtful. “Years ago I hung my shield on the city gates of Constantinople, but now it’s time to hang it on the gates of Kattegat. Our ancestral and original home.” 

He turned to Ivar. “And you can help me, and be revenged upon your brothers at the same time.” 

Ivar barely kept a smile off his face, in awe of the Gods’ plan. He set down his cup of wine and straightened in his seat. “I say it is a fine plan,” he paused, “But… ” 

From the corner of his vision, he could see Oleg’s smile fall. 

Ivar swallowed, his eyes turning cold. “When the battle is done and you have taken over the city, I want nothing to do with Kattegat. You may burn it to the ground for all I care.”

Oleg’s expression turned curious. “You do not wish to return there?” 

“All that waits for me in Kattegat is ghosts.” Ivar looked away, thinking of Freydis, of Ragnar, Sigurd, and his Mother. “I was not lying when I said I had no destination in mind while on my journey. Anywhere was better than Kattegat.” 

Oleg’s eyes narrowed. “Then what will you do after?” 

Ivar shrugged. “If you will bid me leave, I will go and continue on my journey as I had before arriving in Kiev.” 

Oleg’s expression sharpened. “And if I don’t let you go?” 

Ivar watched as the man’s pupils expanded, consuming the dark color of his eyes. He stared right back, unblinking. “Then I imagine I’ll be at your mercy.” 

For a moment, Ivar wondered if the size of Oleg’s pupils matched his own.

**Author's Note:**

> Lol, sorry for the wait! This shit takes time! But I hope ya'll enjoyed it :)  
> I ship these two a whole bunch, and seeing as there's a horrible shortage of fics on these two, I just had to write one myself.


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